


i will recoil myself into the black and darkest night

by lanyon



Series: i've got your blood under my fingernails [19]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Community: ccbingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:40:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lanyon/pseuds/lanyon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Barton is capable of great optimism. Even shackled to a stone wall that bleeds icy-cold water, he knows that there will be an end. It may even be on his own terms. He’s always figured that, when he goes, it’ll be an arrow to the heart. It is a useful sort of eternity, knowing that there is less than a handful of people on the planet who can give him the death he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i will recoil myself into the black and darkest night

**Author's Note:**

> + **Warning** for some violence, more implied than explicit but better safe than sorry.

Barton is capable of great optimism. Even shackled to a stone wall that bleeds icy-cold water, he knows that there will be an end. It may even be on his own terms. He’s always figured that, when he goes, it’ll be an arrow to the heart. It is a useful sort of eternity, knowing that there is less than a handful of people on the planet who can give him the death he deserves.

 

He is optimistic, even though he’s a little worse for the wear. The arm injured a few weeks ago is now well and truly broken. He can never be as blasé as Coulson is when it comes to injury because Coulson is indispensable. Barton is a marksman and his recklessness belies that chilling knowledge that irreversible damage to his eyes or to his hands would render him obsolete.

 

It doesn’t stop him from giving his captors so much backtalk that they split open his lip and blacken his eye.

 

Even though he has an action figure, they have no clue who he is. He’s not as good as Natasha at deep cover but his inability to shut up conceals any manner of secrets. His is not the stiff-upper-lips-are-sealed resilience that Coulson has displayed in the same situation. Barton talks. He roundly insults his hosts until they get pissed off enough to knock him out. He’ll allow that it’s not a long-term solution but it’s one way of assuring himself that he will not inadvertently tell them anything useful.

 

Who are you?  
  
“Just a tourist, man. Love Latveria. You guys have great goats.”

 

Who are you?  
  
“James Bond. No, no, I’m not really. Did you know they’ve never cast an American in the role yet?”

 

Who are you?

 

“I’m a secret agent. On a mission to destroy the one ring. You know why that’s funny? It’s funny ‘cause you guys actually have a Mount Doom here.”

 

Who are you?  
  
“Aw, man. Now I’ve got The Who stuck in my head. Great tune but I prefer 'Baba O’Reilly'. _Out here in the field-_ “

 

Who are you?

 

“Ask a new question. Like, how old I am? I look pretty amazing for my age, you know. I mean, under all this caked blood and stuff.”

 

Who are you?

 

“”I’m nobody. Top marks for anyone who gets the classical reference there. Anyone? My god, who taught you guys literature?”

 

Who are you?  
  
“I’m. I’m nobody.”

 

Sometimes, it’s good to believe your own lies. Barton can be very convincing. The ice-cold-bleeding-oozing wall is his constant companion. His fingernails scratch over the lumpy, bumpy surface and he’d prefer a bed and he hates the way the tips of his fingers have become all wrinkled. They tingle, though, the tips of his fingers, and he may have persuaded himself and his captors that he is some manner of nobody but he is still an archer and his bow is his identifying mark. It is a conundrum for the bad guys and Barton likes being a puzzle piece, a puzzled piece of shit oh god not the eyes-

 

He can’t open his eyes. They’re gummed together, as though with sleep, but he knows it’s blood. There’s no pain that suggests there’s been any damage to the eyes themselves so maybe this is just a sick fuck who likes to cut. Enucleation is a filthy word, anyway.

 

Barton’s fingertips itch and tingle but so does the rest of him and maybe it’s blood loss. His sternum itches, too, and maybe it’s time for the arrow. Phil would kill him though and he smiles at the thought, a bloodstained, rictus grin, because he might be nobody but he’s Coulson’s and Coulson is the thread that’ll guide him out of this labyrinth.

 

“Who are you?”

 

“Loose lips sink ships,” and it’s not an invitation to give him a Glasgow smile and maybe Sick Fuck has watched _The Dark Knight_ a few too many times and Barton’s just vain enough to regret saying that but his fingers itch and his sternum itches and there is an explosion just as the knife touches the corner of Barton’s mouth. It stings a bit but there is something different in the room, this room that he cannot see. There is an absence of life, though, and he thinks that Sick Fuck has left the building and the fucker had the temerity to die out of reach so Barton can’t even get the knife.

 

It’s okay, though. There are fingertips fluttering over his face and his ears are ringing from the explosion.

 

“Could’ve said _fire in the hole_ , Coulson,” he murmurs and he feels a huff of warm air near his ear like even Coulson can see the funny side. “I’ve always wanted someone to say that on a mission,” Barton continues wistfully as another set of deft hands work at his shackles. He’s pretty sure it’s Natasha and that’s fucking awesome because it means she got out and then she came back because that’s how she rolls.

 

There’s something warm and damp on his face, wiping gently, unsticking his eyes and everything stings and now he can see Coulson, though his face is a little blurry and Coulson’s lips are moving but Barton can’t quite make out what he’s saying because everything inside his head is still a high-pitched ebb-and-flow of a scream.

 

“Oh god. You’re wearing your field suit. That’s so hot,” says Barton and Coulson’s eyes widen and his lips move and it’s probably _shut up, Barton_ and Barton can see the way that Natasha is rolling her eyes and everything is as it should be.

 

Barton helpfully holds still as Coulson cleans and applies paper stitches to the worst wounds and Coulson’s hands move so fast that they’re a blur and Barton’s own eyes roll a little but it’s not entirely voluntary. Now he can see the knife embedded in Sick Fuck’s neck. “Ha, hoisted on your own petard.”

 

“Do you ever shut up, Barton?” Coulson’s voice finally permeates the shriek and Barton grins.

 

“Not ever, sir. Not fucking ever. It’s why you love me.”

 

Coulson exchanges a glance with Natasha, who’s got that strange smile on her face as though she can’t really argue and she knows that Coulson can’t, either. Sometimes, Barton thinks Natasha knows more than she’ll ever say and maybe it should be an unsettling realisation but, really, it’s one of the most reassuring things about the woman.

 

“I choose to interpret your silence as confirmation, Coulson. Can we go now?”

 

It’s actually pretty heart-warming to emerge into the twilight and see Thor, who’s got some evil lackey in a headlock, and Rogers, who’s at his Captain America fucking best, all tall and brave and free and talking seriously with Hill, and Iron Man, who’s cradling all this Hammer tech like it’s a recalcitrant child. Banner is being supported by Fury and he’s got this relieved expression on his face and Barton guesses that there are Hulk-shaped holes in the walls.

 

He’s wrapped up in that silver foil stuff that’s supposed to prevent hypothermia and there was a shot of some kind of painkiller that’s made of pure magic and there’s a medic rattling off all kind of parameters to her assistant and the air outside is colder even than the wall and the imminent death had been. Coulson’s talking on his phone, hand on Barton’s shoulder, his thumb rubbing lightly against the back of Barton’s neck while his fingers curve over his collarbone. Barton thinks this might be the closest thing to a public display of affection ever delivered by Phil Coulson.

 

“Twenty-three days of captivity and he’s still smirking,” says Stark, who’s carefully setting down objects that consist of metal and extruding wires. He studies Barton’s face and nods with what looks like satisfaction, like he can see past the bruises and the field dressings, and see something that’s still Barton.

 

“’s all good, man.” Barton is feeling very generous. “Knew you guys would come.” And everyone knows what he really means, he’s sure of it. He knew that Coulson would come for him and that Natasha would never leave him behind. He knew that Rogers is genetically and morally incapable of leaving anyone unrescued and that Thor has this weird sense of honour that likely departed Earth when the Asgardians were last worshipped as gods. He knows that Banner thinks he’s still in the red, despite being steadfast to a fucking fault and he knows that Stark, underneath all that metal and sass, has a heart that beats and cares.

 

(But, mostly, it’s about Coulson, who’d’ve come alone, who inspires more loyalty than he’ll ever realise and whose hand is steady on Barton’s shoulder.)

 

Barton has to promise that he’ll be good for the doctors at the base in Switzerland and Stark helpfully points out that most orthopaedic surgeons are great guys, even if they’ve got the manual dexterity of toddlers but he’s sure that Barton’s arm is in great hands. Barton would flip him off if he could even attain the manual dexterity of a toddler.

 

The debrief starts on the flight back to New York. Somehow, Barton and Coulson are on a Stark jet while the others fly coach with SHIELD and Barton has to wonder about Tony Stark’s expectations of his colleagues. It does mean that he can sprawl, though, his head pillowed on Coulson’s lap as he relates everything, from the moment he realised that his cover had been blown right through to the moment Coulson arrived, all detonation and style.

 

He hears about how the call came through from Natasha and how she was snatched in Leipzig. Barton pities anyone foolish enough to abduct the Black Widow. Natasha dispatched them before they even got her into the waiting van and she doubled back to Latveria to meet the advance rescue party, which consisted of Coulson and some customized C-4.

 

Barton strains his neck to look up at Coulson, who looks tired but he’s smiling that open smile that’s all Clint’s. Barton’s not sure he wants to know what Coulson did to find him. Latveria’s not a big country but it’s like a rabbit warren, with mines and mountains and inexplicable castles with icy-cold walls. Coulson says that Stark’s thinking of buying it – yes, all of Latveria – and he tells Barton to stop trying to scratch under his cast and Barton can’t quite conceive that fingers this gentle could have wrung secrets from the throats of Barton’s captors, for all that there’s a trigger finger callus and slightly grazed, slightly swollen knuckles. Barton raises one of Coulson’s hands to his lips, so he can drag his tongue over those knuckles, and Coulson laughs.

 

“So, who missed me most?” Barton asks, to forestall the inevitable; the delineation of a plan that will involve admission to Medical at SHIELD, for physical and psychological evaluations that will make everyone recall that Barton’s a little bit batshit, or whatever the technical term is for whatever Barton is (the man with the eyesight of a hawk and the foresight of a myopic hedgehog and the sort of charm that enraptures a man like Phil Coulson).

 

“Don’t tell me,” he says, turning his head so that his words are muffled against the front of Coulson’s shirt and he’s a little disconsolate that Coulson is back to his usual tailored suits. He inhales deeply. “It was Stark, right? He’d no one to blame for the midnight shit? No, wait, it was Rogers because he had to deal with super-concentrated Stark midnight shit. No, hang on, he probably likes that better. Wait, I bet it was Fury ‘cause he secretly enjoys my witty asides in the field. Or –“ He’s cut short by Coulson’s hand on his cheek, grazed, swollen knuckles gliding over stubble and Barton thinks it must sting but Coulson’s lips brush his forehead, between the healing knife wounds, and it’s all the answer Barton needs.

 

“Yeah,” he says with the utmost satisfaction as his eyes drift closed. “I thought so.”

**Author's Note:**

> +Title from the Frames' _Lay me Down_.  
>  +For Bingo Prompt _Risking your life for each other_ ; even if Coulson + C-4 = OTP, it's still risky business.  
> +For Feels. I feel like I owe a debt to QT because I've ventured out of fluff here but I know I'm following the footsteps of a fantastic author. Also, Ellie and Sarah because you guys are the best. <3  
> +And just to say that this is the penultimate installment in this series. There's one more to go, my loves, so I'll try to make it a good one. Thank you all so so so much for your support and for making me smile with your feedback on days when I haven't felt much like smiling.


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